


Haunted

by Miso



Series: A War He Can't Forget [3]
Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Some people were in Vietnam in 1962. Some people were there last night.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY FLOYD I'M BEING SO MEAN TO YOU. Something of a continuation of "Comfort Object" and "Snuff the Rooster." Floyd being a PTSD-addled war veteran is an interesting concept to me and explains a lot about him in my opinion. I love Floyd being vulnerable and as much of a wreck as the other people on this show. I love writing in second person because it really lets me get into a character's head... even when I'm doing so to make them miserable.

You stand in the entrance to the cave, staring in horror as your fellow soldiers fire blindly at anyone not wearing US Army green. Your feet are glued to their position no matter how much you try to move them, and all you see is blood and all you smell is gunpowder and all you hear is the screaming of the dying innocent. You try to reach for your gun, but you can't move your arms. You want to scream, want to cry, but you can't. None of your limbs work, your jaw won't move, your voice is caught in your throat.

You feel something carding through your hair. You assume it's a spider, because your subconscious regularly adds more layers of "fuck you" to this dream. You know this dream. You know this place. It's a place you visit regularly, whether you want to or not. You hear a soft voice calling your name, but you can't respond. It's like you're a statue, a living statue, stuck where you stand but able to breathe and see but not scream for help.

You know what's coming next. A little girl stares at you with big, dark, tear-filled eyes as one of your "friends" pins her to the ground with his boot and levels the barrel of his gun at the back of her skull. She cries out to you in a language you don't understand, but you assume she's screaming for help. She usually is. You try desperately to get away, to get to her, to do anything, but you're still stuck to your position.

"Floyd!"

The voice is louder. You feel hot tears course down your cheeks. You feel like your feet are made of lead, but you can feel your fingers twitch. You stare in horror as the little girl's brains are splattered across the cave floor. That's different. You usually wake up before that.

Why didn't you wake up?

You feel your fingers twitch again. Your legs feel a bit lighter. Your arms can move. And your instincts take over. You run. You run as fast and hard as you can from that cave, screaming as your voice returns to you. You desperately claw through the tropical brush as you flee. You don't even care if you're punished when you're inevitably found. Hell, you don't care if you die. You need to run. You need to leave. You trip over a branch and howl in pain as you slice your leg on a sharp rock. You sob and shudder in the underbrush.

You feel like a terrified little boy. You want to go home. You want your mother's warm embrace. Hell, you want to have a shouting match with your father. It would be better than this.

"Floyd, baby, wake UP!"

Your eyes shoot open, and the jungle is gone. The wound on your leg is gone. You sit bolt upright, breathing heavily, cold sweat drying on your body, muscles tense and trembling. You look around your surroundings for a bit. White walls. Popcorn ceiling. A green dresser and wardrobe. You look down. A red, purple, and blue quilt, and a warm hand on your arm. You glance to your right.

Curly hair, square jaw, thick eyebrows, aquiline nose, and dark brown eyes full of concern. It takes your panic-addled brain a second to make the connection. Earl. Your live-in boyfriend. The bane of your existence and the light of your life at the same time. You're silent. The two of you stare at each other a while, before Earl whispers, "Nightmares again?"

You nod weakly.

"... Need something?"

You bite your lower lip, feeling the tears prick your eyes. You hate to cry. Again. It's been less than a month than this last happened. All the same, though, you've been catching yourself leaning on Earl a lot lately. You can't deny that his presence grounds you and reminds you where you are. You nod again. Your voice is stuck in your throat.

He lists off a few things. "Water?" No. "Your medicine?" Not yet. "Purrl Camembert?" You feel yourself cringe internally, but you nod. "... A hug?" Another nod. Earl kisses your temple gently and leaves bed, digging in the dresser before coming up with the stuffed cat you've gotten attached to since he left for Japan for a week not long ago. He crawls back into bed beside you, handing you the stuffed animal to white-knuckle as you curl into him and tremble. You rest your head over his heartbeat and try to count the thumps.

He strokes your hair softly. Maybe that was the phantom spider on your head earlier. You bury your nose in the top of Purrl Camembert's head, tense muscles still trembling wildly. Earl continues gently running his hand over your hair. You try to ground yourself. You're warm. You're safe. You're wrapped in the blankets, there's a soft stuffed animal in your arms, you can hear Earl breathing and his heart beating. Your hair is long and nearly touches your shoulders as opposed to being in a military-issue crew cut.

"Doing alright?" Earl whispers, and you nod a little. You can feel your pulse and breathing returning to a more normal rate. The tears that dried earlier return, and you feel your shoulders heave as you begin sobbing. The panic attacks themselves weren't the worst part, this was. Earl's hand moves from your hair to your back, where he begins rubbing gently. You swallow hard and tremble, sobbing softly.

"Shhhh... it's okay. It's okay." His voice is so gentle and warm. It feels like a soft blanket out of the dryer being wrapped around your shoulders. You hate that you're like this. This isn't who you're supposed to be. You're supposed to be the serious one, the stoic one, the unflappable one who isn't bothered by anything. You're not supposed to be a sobbing wreck in your boyfriend's arms. You're Floyd Fucking Robertson, goddammit.

You hiccup, cough a little, and whimper pathetically. You manage to find your voice, and you choke out, "... Am I crazy?"

"No." Earl rubs your back some more. "You're not crazy. You're hurting. There's nothing wrong with that." He gently wipes away the tracks of your tears with the corner of a blanket. You tremble again and look up at him. He smiles reassuringly. "You're not crazy. You're still you. This is why you're seeing a therapist, right?"

You let out a shuddering sigh and nod a little. You snuggle into him as he lays back down. "... I-I-I'm sorry I'm like this."

"Shhh, no, no, it's okay. It isn't your fault." Earl kisses the top of your head. You close your eyes and nuzzle his neck. He strokes your hair again and pulls you close. "You okay to go back to sleep?"

You nod a little. "Just... don't let go of me."

"I won't."

It takes a bit, but you feel the void of sleep embrace you again. Thankfully, the rest of the night is black nothingness, with moments of half-awakening to return to contact with Earl. You don't need much. Just to feel him against you is enough. When you wake for the morning, you're greeted with a cup of coffee on your nightstand, some aspirin for the pounding headache Earl knew you would have, and a note: "Sorry I'm not here. I tried to cook breakfast. Didn't go very well. Gone to get takeout. Be home soon. I love you."

You smile a little bit and chuckle low in your throat, then gratefully take the aspirin with the lukewarm coffee.

Even when the nights are hard, the mornings are usually sweet enough to make up for it.


End file.
